


So Color Me Green With Disgust (or maybe with envy)

by lapsus_calami



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Human AU, M/M, and stiles has the observations skills of a squirrel, but because he wants to be the man, derek has the emotional awareness of a walnut, let the misunderstandings commence, neither one are good at figuring stuff out, not because they're men, stiles and derek as college roommates, stiles brings home other men and derek doesn't like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7623412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek’s as straight as a ruler and he’s totally okay with that. He’s also okay with Stiles being as straight as a bendable squiggly straw. Or at least he thought he was. Recent events have him wondering if he’s secretly some sort of homophobe, and it’s seriously starting to affect his and Stiles’ relationship in a bad way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Color Me Green With Disgust (or maybe with envy)

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this](http://supremecarlos.co.uk/post/145136975387/heres-the-full-article-for-anyone-who-wants-to) tumblr post.

  **So Color Me Green With Disgust (or maybe with envy)**

 So here’s how it starts: Derek is straight, Stiles is not, and it’s not a problem.

* * *

 At least it didn’t use to be a problem. Stiles being gay, that is. And it’s not really a problem now. Derek knew Stiles was gay when they moved in together and Stiles knew Derek wasn’t. Stiles is a total flirt with anything that has a pulse, Derek included, and Derek tends to indulge the habit just enough to amuse the both of them. Neither one of them have an issue with the other. Or, rather, Stiles still doesn’t and Derek is, for some reason, starting to.

But he’s getting ahead of himself.

It really starts like this: Stiles brings home a guy. Then he brings another. And another. And on it goes.

The first time Stiles high-fives Derek with a Cheshire grin on the way to his bedroom a tall and handsome blond clutching his other hand, and Derek, reluctantly, accepts it. The second time Derek gets the same treatment as he’s on his way out the door while Stiles and his broad shouldered companion are on their way in. Third verse, same as the first.

And Derek really doesn’t mind. It’s not any of his business who Stiles sleeps with and Stiles, for all his dramatic flair, is actually quite discreet. Derek never sees anything he wouldn’t see from anyone else and even with his keen hearing Stiles’ room is utterly silent. One time Derek didn’t even know Stiles had anyone in there with him until tall, dark, and kind of attractive but mostly an asshole strode out in just a pair of boxers.

The fifth time is where things begin to go downhill, figuratively speaking. Stiles offers him a high-five, Derek accepts, but for some reason there’s a simmering pit of disgust low in his stomach. It surprises the hell out of Derek who takes a moment for some self-reflection but ultimately can’t pin down what exactly he’s upset about. And from that point on it just grows, festering deep inside him until Derek finds himself all out glaring at anyone Stiles even remotely shows interest in, which is practically everyone who even remotely fits his type.

Stiles, for all his talk about being observant, remains completely oblivious to the whole thing. Derek can’t help but feel relieved about that.

The eighth time, though, the eighth time is where it really all goes to shit.

* * *

Derek sighs dragging a hand over his face as he trudges up the stairs to his and Stiles’ apartment and fits the key in the door. It had been a long day. A long fucking day. He’s hungry and tired and the last thing he wants to see when he walks in their apartment is Stiles on some dude’s lap with his tongue down the dude’s throat.

Stiles has his hands tangled in the other man’s hair, and the man’s hands are somewhere under Stiles’ shirt. There’s kissing and rolling hips and soft moans. A distant part of Derek’s mind is screaming for him to turn and run, but a deeper and more primal part is absolutely captivated.

Because it’s shocking; the sight of it that is. Derek freezes with his hand still on the door, his mouth unattractively hanging open to catch flies, and a startling degree of disgust building in his stomach. Also shocking is the visceral sense of revulsion that spreads through him even as Stiles and the other man spring apart with matching looks of embarrassment.

“Derek!” Stiles yelps, practically tripping over his own feet and stubbing his toe on the coffee table in the process. His hair’s disheveled, Derek notes, sticking out in all directions, and his lips are plumper than usual. Redder too. “I, I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

The other man’s recovered for the most part and is lounging back against the couch, _Derek’s_ couch, like he owns the place with a smug grin on his face.

“I _live_ here,” Derek says. Probably with more anger than rightly warranted. “That’s _my_ couch.”

Which, okay, it is, but Derek still has no idea why he pointed that out.

“Yeah,” Stiles says weakly rubbing at the back of his neck, “but it’s Wednesday. And we were totally going to move to the bedroom.”

Right, Derek thinks, because he’s usually not home for another four hours on Wednesdays. And surely even Stiles and his boytoy of the day can’t keep it up that long. Or maybe they could. Probably best to stop thinking about it. He swallows, squashing down on the urge to puke, and offers Stiles a faint smile. A peace offering. “Class was canceled.”

“Oh, well, congratulations,” Stiles says because of course he knows Derek hates that class and would think congratulations appropriate given the situation.

“I could say the same to you,” Derek replies wryly and finally moves further into the apartment and closes the door.

Stiles laughs and relaxes, tension sliding off him and eyes twinkling. “Yeah, sorry about that. Didn’t expect you. Uh, this is Mitchell. Mitchell, this is my roommate Derek. Say hi, Mitchell,” he adds nudging the man with his foot. Mitchell rolls his eyes but waves with a gruff greeting.

“Hey,” Derek returns, mouth dry like he’s hiking in a desert. He kind of hates Mitchell. For no discernable reason.

“I really am sorry,” Stiles repeats shifting his weight from one foot to the other and wringing his hands together. “This is just awkward.”

“It’s fine, seriously. It’s all good,” Derek says even though, for some reason, it really isn’t. He’ll keep that to himself though because it seems like a personal problem.

* * *

And it is a personal problem. A pretty massive one, too. Derek kind of hoped it was a one-time thing, but Derek’s not that lucky. It turns out to be a reoccurring problem. A _malignant_ reoccurring problem, which really kind of pisses him off because Derek considers himself a _rational human being_ , damnit, and it shouldn’t matter that Stiles is sleeping with other men.

Except it kind of does.

Every time Stiles brings a guy home, Derek’s mood sours and he ends up wanting to punch someone in the face. Maybe Stiles. Probably himself. Definitely whatever walking meatstud Stiles brings home.

For some reason he just can’t stop thinking about when he saw Stiles kissing Mitchell; his mind replaying in high-definition and surround sound Stiles on Mitchell’s lap, hands wound in Mitchell’s hair, hips rocking rhythmically against Mitchell’s groin.

And it just grows from there. Derek starts thinking about all kinds of things. All the things Stiles does _with_ other people and _to_ other people. All the things they do to _Stiles_. Touching and kissing and, god, actual fucking.

He catches himself staring at Stiles’ hands as he talks empathetically gesticulating in time with his words. Imagines them running over Mitchell’s or Kevin’s or Matty’s arms and faces. Ghosting down their necks and over their chests with the barest hint of pressure, trailing over their stomachs, delving beneath the waistbands of their pants.

He catches himself staring at Stiles’ mouth as he eats. Imagines it pressed against others’ and trailing kisses along necks, over collarbones, down chests and stomachs. Lower.

It’s distracting is what it is. Irritating. Sickening.

Derek’s starting to feel a bit like a homophobe.

* * *

 “Dude, what are you staring at?” Stiles asks in the middle of one of his rants about the battle tactics of Ewoks. “Have I got something on my face?”

He does. Fucking mesmerizing lips for some reason. But Derek can’t say that.

Stiles is wiping ineffectively at his face, since there’s nothing there that he could wipe off, fingers swiping up and down and eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

“No,” Derek finally gets out. “No, there’s nothing. Sorry, I just…zoned out for a moment.”

Stiles stills then smiles sheepishly. “Bored you with my theories, yeah?” He leans against the table, chin cradled in the palm of one hand and long fingers tapping against his cheekbone. “Wanna talk about something else?”

Derek does. Wants to talk about Stiles’ hands and his lips and the guys he brings home. Wants to talk about the anger always brimming under the surface whenever Stiles brings one around or flirts too openly with the barista or waiter. Wants to talk about the persistent and invasive images that plague him lately, wants to know how accurate they are. But he can’t.

“Sure,” he says.

Stiles purses his lips, swipes a finger through the remains of his milkshake clinging to the side of his glass, absently licks it off. “Hmm. What do you want to talk about?”

“Uh, baseball,” Derek chokes out and Stiles’ eyes light up as he launches into a spirited and mostly one-sided discussion about the Mets.

Derek is just trying to figure out what emotion is caustically burning its way through his insides. Fucking hell, what is wrong with him?

* * *

The worst thing, perhaps, is that clueless Stiles is finally getting a clue. He’s finally figuring out that, maybe, Derek kind of has a problem with him and other guys.

He stops flirting with Derek. Even the all out definitely joking flirting stops. He stops making innuendos and inappropriate puns. Stops teasing Derek about his admittedly lacking sex life. Stops addressing the subject of sex at all.

He starts being more careful about when he brings people over, sometimes outright asking Derek when he plans on being home or leaving. He never says that he’s asking because he’s planning on company but Derek figures it out anyway. Stiles never used to ask about that sort of thing; he either knew or it didn’t matter.

It’s awful. Derek feels awful. He honestly doesn’t understand what the hell is wrong with him. He’s supposed to be more mature than this, supposed to be accepting and forgiving and all that nice stuff.

And he’s trying, really, to deal with whatever latent homophobia is rearing its ugly head. Tries to be understanding and interested, tries to carry on the way he has before. But Stiles has finally noticed the stilted way Derek asks the questions now, has noticed the hard edge to Derek’s jokes, and has noticed the pinched look of disgust that overtakes Derek’s features whenever Stiles starts to talk about anything remotely related to him being gay.

Derek can’t help but think his parents raised him better than this, raised him to be better than a bigoted asshole who can’t accept his best friend for who they are in every sense. They’d probably be so disappointed.

* * *

The déjà vu almost knocks Derek on his ass. Long day, hard day, and he’s getting home early. For some reason he doesn’t think to let Stiles know this even though Stiles had asked very pointedly earlier that day when Derek would be home.

He trudges up the stairs, slides his key in the lock, and gets a eyeful of Stiles and some dirty blond bastard sucking face in the middle of the living room. Stiles jerks away and flushes while Thor just grins and slides an arm around Stiles’ waist.

“Hey,” he says, “you must be Derek. I’m Sam. It’s nice to meet you.”

“I assume you’re leaving?” Derek asks icily ignoring the outstretched hand and tossing his bag onto the couch.

“Uh, yeah, actually,” Sam says clearly thrown. Stiles frowns giving Derek a sharp glare as he tugs Sam to the door. He murmurs something too quiet to hear, gives Sam a kiss on the cheek, and ushers him out. Derek, for some reason because he can’t tear his eyes away, watches the whole exchange.

As soon as the door is shut Stiles whirls around and demands, “What crawled up your ass and died?”

Derek turns away and shrugs, toeing his shoes off and shedding his jacket.

“Okay,” Stiles says, and he sounds frustrated. Unhappy. “I really can’t deal with this anymore. Out with it. Do you have a problem with the fact that I’m sleeping with other guys?”

“What? No, of course not,” Derek says even as his heart sings _liar, liar, pants on fire_ at him.

Stiles huffs throwing his hands in the air. “Then what is it? If you’re just pissed at seeing me with people then you’re being a real hypocrite. Remember Jennifer? You two used to suck face on the couch while I was in the same damn room. _All_ the time."

Derek winces, the simmering feeling of anger edging away just a bit at the reminder. Stiles hadn’t been the fondest of Jennifer, but he’d put up with her being around a lot there for a while. “You’re right,” he agrees aiming for placating as he runs his hands through his hair. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m just having a bad day. I really don’t give a damn who you sleep with.”

He must fall short of the target though because Stiles looks angrier if anything. Shoves his feet into his shoes and snatches his coat off the hook by the door. “I’m going to Scott’s,” he snaps yanking the door open. “And you’ll be okay me sleeping with him so long as I do that at his place instead of ours, right?”

Something sour tears through Derek’s stomach and he can’t help imagining it unbidden. Wonders for a brief, _brief_ moment which one of them would bottom. If Stiles would pin Scott up against a wall or if Scott would press Stiles into his mattress. He marvels at the contrast of their skin tones, Scott’s tanned hands running over Stiles’ pale torso, thinks maybe Scott would do the same.

He shakes his head, chasing the thoughts away. “It’s none of my business what you do at Scott’s,” he says, mouth dry and unable to meet Stiles’ challenging gaze. His words are oddly curt; even to him they sound like a lie.

“Fuck you, Derek,” Stiles growls and storms out, slamming the door behind him.

When Laura comes by later and comments on Stiles’ absence at their monthly movie night Derek just sinks low in his chair and tries to not drown in his own shame.

* * *

Derek stands corrected. The worst thing is Stiles having a clue and pretending like he doesn’t. He comes home the next day and it’s like nothing ever happened. He flirts and teases endlessly, but there’s something missing. Something off.

Stiles doesn’t bring guys around anymore, takes to spending the nights at their places apparently because he’s frequently not home only to sweep back in the next morning all loose limbed and sated. 

Derek can’t help but feel like he’s ruined something precious. That his disgust when thinking about Stiles with other guys has hurt them irreparably. That he might have to leave because he can’t stop judging Stiles for his lifestyle, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt Stiles.

Knows that he’s probably doing that already anyway.

Actually, no, _that’s_ probably the worst thing.

* * *

 “You’re an idiot,” Laura says bluntly. “I can’t believe you tried to figure this out on your own.”

Derek straightens in the chair, glares with stung pride even though he agrees with her. He didn’t share the last few months of existential crisis and friendship wrecking disgust to be told he’s an idiot though. He shared it for useful advice. “If you’re gonna insult me then I think I’m just gonna leave.”

Laura rolls her eyes, dismissing Derek’s empty threat with the long practiced ease of an elder sibling. “Der, have you considered the idea that what you’re feeling isn’t disgust?” she asks.

“What else would it be?” Derek asks with a frown.

“Ah, jealousy for a start.”

“Jealousy?” Derek echoes doubtfully and takes a moment to consider it. He’s thought about it before, but he can’t figure out what he’d be jealous _of_. The only thing he’d remotely landed on was Stiles having a more active sex life, but Derek’s never had the highest sex drive and even in that regard his reaction seems strange, irrational, and not at all logical. “Of what?” he continues. “Him having more sex than I do?”

Laura scoffs, rolls her eyes again like Derek’s a special kind of moron. “No. Because you don’t like seeing Stiles with other people, dumbass. You want his attention for yourself.”

“ _What_?” Derek protests indignantly. “No, I—”

“Yes, Derek, you have a great big giant crush on your roommate,” Laura drawls crossing her arms as she leans back in her chair. “And because you’re an oblivious walnut you somehow convinced yourself you were a homophobe instead.”

“I—” Derek starts, words failing him as he considers hers. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“That’s…I have a crush on Stiles.”

Laura chuckles. “Yes. And from the sounds of it, he’s got a nice big one on you too.”

“I, what?” Derek asks again thrown by Laura’s assertion and still a little bewildered by his own revelation.

“The more you try to reassure him you don’t care who he sleeps with the more mad he gets, right?” Laura says with a shrug. “Plus, he’s the one who brought up Jennifer probably because he’s trying to make you jealous.”

“I have a crush on Stiles,” Derek repeats again, still a little, okay a lot, in shock.

Laura smiles, soft and fond. “Yeah, baby bro, you do.”

* * *

So now Derek has an even bigger problem. He’s definitely a little bit in love with Stiles, and they’re still not really talking. Stiles is still hooking up with other guys, and Derek still definitely hates it. Only now he readily identifies the turmoil inside him as envy rather than disgust.

Derek spends the next few weeks sitting on his ass, wrapping and rewrapping his head around the fact that he’s somehow managed to slide a few numbers on the Kinsey scale for his best friend. And the fact that, at least in Laura’s admittedly informed opinion, Stiles is interested in Derek as well.

It’s terrifying. Mostly because Derek feels like this might be an even more surefire way to fuck up their friendship than any potentially homophobic issues. He’s terrified of messing up whatever remains of their friendship, of losing Stiles forever. He’s even more scared of letting this pass by with nary a word. Scared of Stiles getting tired of waiting, of seeing him with other guys, of him getting an honest to God boyfriend he’s happy with that isn't Derek. Because, as established, Derek doesn’t think he’ll deal well with that.

So he plans it out. Decides when and how he’ll tell Stiles. How he’ll tell him everything from the first time he thought he was disgusted with Stiles to the point that Laura helped him put the pieces together.

Of course it doesn’t quite go as planned.

* * *

Derek loses his nerve to go through with it on the night he originally plans. Completely chickens out. So he and Stiles have a nice if slightly awkward dinner and then go their separate ways, Stiles sneaking little glances at him like he thinks Derek may have lost his goddamn mind.

He ends up telling Stiles two nights later during a Tarantino marathon Laura conveniently failed to show up to because nothing says romance like rampant graphic violence an explosions. In all honesty Stiles might actually believe that. 

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a dick,” Derek says, eyes glued resolutely to the screen.

Stiles shifts beside him, clearly surprised by Derek bringing it up but recovering quickly. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Derek counters and licks his lips. “Really. I just, I was being an ass because I was jealous.”

“You were jealous?” Stiles echoes then laughs. Derek flicks his gaze over to him, admires the long line of his neck, hates the slightly self-deprecating undertone. “Trust me, Derek, you don’t need to be jealous. Not like you’d have any trouble finding people to sleep with you if you actually tried.”

“No, I wasn’t jealous of you having sex,” Derek says dropping his gaze to his lap, voice going just a little raspy. “I was jealous of them. Because they got to have…you.”

Stiles stills, chuckles dying off immediately as he twists to stare at Derek. His gaze is heavy, almost burning against Derek’s skin. “You…you’re jealous of the guys?”

“Yeah,” Derek says trying to offer him a genuine smile. “Laura, uh, she pointed out that I kind of have a giant crush on you apparently. And she thinks you, uh, might have one on me too.”

Stiles licks his lips taking a movement to compose his answer. “Well I always did say she was the sharpest pitchfork of you bunch.”

“So you do?”

“Derek, I have flirted practically non-stop with you since the day I met you,” Stiles says rolling his eyes. “I didn’t think I could be any _more_ obvious.”

Derek blinks. “Yeah, but you flirt with everyone.”

“But I _kept_ flirting with you,” Stiles says like it makes all the difference. “I just…I never thought it’d go anywhere. I mean, you were that Totally Straight guy.” He pauses with a frown. “Honestly, I was kind of trying to get over you. That’s why I’ve been seeing a bunch of people.”

“Honestly,” Derek seconds in all seriousness, “this whole time I thought I was suddenly turning into some kind of homophobe. I legitimately though I was disgusted by you. It was traumatizing.”

Stiles grins, bright and blinding like this is the best goddamn news he’s heard all night. “Seriously?” he says, then throws his head back laughing when Derek nods. “Derek, you’re the most emotionally unaware person I know. Fuck.” He shakes his head, wiping at his eyes before squinting at Derek critically. “Never would have taken you as the jealous type.”

“Evidently I’m very much the jealous type,” Derek says.

“Yes, you’ve got quite the lizard brain. And your lizard brain wants me,” Stiles teases laughing again. Derek smiles and ducks his head amused in spite of himself.

Stiles’ laughter eventually tapers off and then they’re sitting silently side by side on the couch. Stiles twists, pulling one leg up on the couch to face Derek fully. “So what now?” he asks.

“I don’t know,” Derek admits.

“Maybe,” Stiles purposes slowly, “we should just throw caution to the wind and see where this takes us.”

“Like dating?” Derek asks and Stiles shrugs easily.

“Sure,” he says. “Don’t have to call it that and we could start with something simpler.”

“Like what?”

Stiles smirks and leans forward to twist a hand in the collar of Derek’s worn and faded t-shirt, lips a hairs breath away from Derek’s as he whispers, “Like a kiss.”

And Derek may have to revise his opinion on Tarantino being romantic. As it happens excessive explosions are a great soundtrack for a first kiss. 

* * *

So here’s the plot twist: Derek doesn’t have any problem with Stiles kissing guys so long as it’s Derek that he’s kissing.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> You can follow me on [tumblr](http://little-red-and-his-wolves.tumblr.com)


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